Parent/Teacher/CrazyPeople

“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Aarons. Thanks for coming,” Sam’s kindergarten teacher says when we enter the classroom with eager smiles. “Ready to get started?”

“Sure!” Chris and I respond as we sit down in two little chairs that have the potential to trap us for hours. “Let’s hear it!”

Ms. Ryan looks down at her paperwork, and Chris and I stare at her expectantly. We haven’t admitted it to each other, but I know we’re both secretly waiting for her to suddenly fall down on her knees, raise her arms to the sky and shriek, “Thank you, sweet baby Jesus! Thank you for allowing me to teach this child! It is an honor and a privilege and I am not worthy! I am sooo not worthy of Sam! You two are the best, most incredible parents in the entire universe—and quite youthful looking, too, I may add, especially you, Mrs. Aarons—and both of you should be given the Medal of Honor and tickets to Oprah for doing such a fantastic job! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”

“Oh…great!” I respond, trying to cover-up my disappointment with a big, ingratiating grin. “And how’s his reading?” I chirp. I know full well the answer will be a good one.

“I think you’re already well aware that he’s reading at an advanced rate,” she states.

“Well, um, well,” I stammer, wanting her to give us More. “What about his report card? Was that good or bad? I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. I mean, ‘rubric?’ All those numbers? What the heck do they even mean? I don’t work for IBM, ha-ha! Stupid mommy! Can’t…add…”

She pulls out her copy of his report card. “It’s good.”

“Can I see it, please? I haven’t had a chance to look at it yet,” Chris asks and he quickly scans it. “Huh. What’s this ‘2’ in handwriting all about? That’s a little low, isn’t it? He’s only 6-years-old you know.”

Ms. Ryan looks at him with big eyes, so I quickly try to cover for my outspoken husband. “It’s okay Ms. Ryan. He didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, I did,” Chris protests with a look in my direction. “I totally meant it. A two is for the kids who still write their s’s” backwards. The kids who couldn’t even make a decent looking circle if you paid them $100 cash money. Sam doesn’t deserve a two.”

“Well, we’re sure you’re being fair,” I continue to Ms. Ryan, giving Chris a warning glance that means he should just shut up already. “A two’s completely understandable! You see, Ms. Ryan, Sam gets his bad handwriting from my husband. He can’t help it—it’s in his genes.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Chris asks.

“It means bad penmanship doesn’t come from my side of the family,” I say with a tight smile. “In fact, I’ve been told many times that I write like an angel. Your handwriting looks like you have a seizure every time you pick up a pen.”

“Does not!”

“Does too!”

As Ms. Ryan squirms uncomfortably in her chair, Chris looks down at the report card again. “He got a ‘3’ in ‘Knows his five senses’? That’s ridiculous. He’s known his senses since he was two-years-old.”

“Well, ‘3’ is still a good score…” she begins.

“Yeah, Chris, it’s fine!” I say, knowing we’re well on our way to being discussed in the teachers’ lounge this afternoon.

“No, it’s not fine. And please stop kicking me,” Chris loudly whispers, then he looks at the report card again. “A ‘3’ in ‘Knows what is harmful’? Okay, that one doesn’t even make sense because his mother’s been warning him about the dangers of the world ever since he was in utero.”

“Have not!”

“Have too!”

“Excuse me…” Ms. Ryan tries.

“Fine. But I know that I’m not the one who made him scared of toilet seats,” Chris continues. “Poor kid practically passes out from terror every time he’s in a public restroom. I almost had to call 911 when he touched a toilet handle at Target last week.”

“Oh, come on. That’s so not true because last week in Costco he…” I start, then I hear Ms. Ryan clear her throat, so I turn to her with a big, fake gameshow contestant face. Everyone in the room knows full well that the crazy train has already left the station, but I feel it’s important to make at least one last ditch effort to save the meeting.

“Um, okay,” Ms. Ryan says and stands up. “Looks like we’ve run out of time…I see my next meeting is already here, so…” and she then she gives us the bum’s rush out of room 121 before I can even ask her how Sam’s doing in “Zips Up His Own Pants.”

“Well, that went well,” I mutter as we slowly walk out of the front doors and into the parking lot, shaking our heads like we don’t know what the hell just happened in there.

“Oh, I don’t know,” says Chris, putting his arm around my shoulder and giving it a squeeze. “I think I’d give it a ‘2’.”

___________________________________

Based on an actual conference when Sam was in kindergarten. Despite his whackjob parents, he’s now made it to the second grade.

Comments

I hate parent/teacher conferences. Even though I know my kids’ teachers really well, and I know what they’re up to in school, I turn into a blithering idiot the moment I sit down in one of the little chairs. I feel as though I’m the one being graded on my momship.

I remember the very distinct displeasure, and the overwhelming sense of parental inadequacy coupled with humilating failure, when the teacher told me my son needed to go into “Reading Recovery”. He wasn’t reading at the same level as the rest of the 6 year old first graders when the school year began. Really? The rest of them are breezing thru Tolstoy or something? They. Are. Six. It’s all I can do to get him to remember to put the toilet seat down and not let the dog lick the rest of the soda from his cup “cuz she looks thirsty”. Reading? I’ve got some higher priorities, lady!

Husband and I have made it a rule…I’m the only one who goes to the parent/teacher conferences. I’m not be able to handle the scrutiny on my mothering skills in front of him – he thinks I’m solid as a rock. He knows NOTHING about the voices in my head! HAHAHAHAHAHA!!! Sorry – its been a long week…yes, i’m aware its only Tuesday…

While at our previous school, I always wondered why his parent/teacher conference wasn’t actually referred to as the “parent/principal” conference. I mean, that’s where my child spent 60% of his day anyway, she probably should have known more of where he was at. I’m somewhat excited to go to these things now as it’s not just litany of what he’s doing wrong. Handwriting though? Between my husband and myself, our child never stood a chance on the handwriting front. Put it this way, my tablet pc is supposed to be able to convert handwriting to typing. When I try it, it’s like a computerized version of the telephone game, what comes out is nowhere near what went in.

As a parent of two very different children I feel your pain.
For the younger one confences are a love feast he does his work he is kind, for the other one they can’t wait until he is out of there class and tormenting the next teacher.
I actually told one teacher once you only have him for 174 days in the year for 45 minutes a day. I get him for a life time deal with it. Things improved after that for all of us!

Your lucky thats all she said. Everytime I go to my kids school, I have to hear the teacher go on and on about how much my kid talks and why he/she has to be sat right next to the teachers desk. WTF? What’s wrong with being social? I wanna know.

Interestingly, I just had my son’s 1st Grade Parent/Teacher conference today. I, however, intelligently made my husband stay home under the guise of “taking care of our sick kid”. Oh wait, he was in fact taking care of our sick kid, so I guess it wasn’t a guise. I guess I was just lucky.

That sounds a lot like our conference last year, when my son was in kindergarten! I showed up expecting to hear a list of all the things he does outstandingly well (which of course I knew already) and didn’t want to sit still and hear about anything that needed work, because of course that was a commentary on my parenting and nothing else.

But he’s happily in first grade, and I think we only have one conference a year, so I’m good until next fall now.

This all just gives me so much to look forward to when my children are in school… maybe I’ll just fake sick or pray really hard for a fire drill like I always did in high school algebra… I never knew the fear that went into these things.

And that calling 911 for touching the toilet seat handle gave me a much needed laugh.

This was so funny! You have such a talent for description. I wouldn’t let my husband go with me to our first parent teacher conference this year for kindergarten. He is so sure our daughter is gifted. I was sure he would embarrass the heck out of me. I’m sorry dear, she’s just normal which is fine with me! 🙂

I think it’s hilarious that these teachers are JUDGING 5 yr olds on social skills and sounding out their letters. “If you say my child talks too much, then maybe you can’t control your class, Ms. Single-teacher-with-no-kids-and-a-crappy-profile-on-Eharmony. Look who doesn’t have any social skills now.”

My favorite conference was the year my son was in the 7th grade. His nimrod History teacher was also his homeroom teacher. My husband, my son, and I walk into the conference. He looks at us and he say, “Ben is really struggling. He is failing 4 out of his 7 classes.” This would have been tragic news, if my son’s name was Ben and if he didn’t have straight A’s.

At first we thought he was kidding, but he wasn’t. The best was, he wasn’t the least bit embarrassed by having had the kid in class for a semester and still did not know his name.

At the end of the year, Nick was shown as missing a grade on an oral presentation. When pressed on it and reminded about the presentation it was found that he had given the grade, yes, to Ben.

Seriously, these were the last conferences I ever attended. Email became my communications method of choice with the teachers.

My son is a senior in high school and just had his first “referral” to the principal’s office. Yay! What would we have done if we went all through his school career without getting a call from the principal? That would have been way too disappointing.